


call me anything but what i am

by on_vis_och



Category: Shades of Magic - V. E. Schwab
Genre: Angst, Gen, Pre-Canon, maybe shippy if you squint really hard, somewhat alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 12:37:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18282524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/on_vis_och/pseuds/on_vis_och
Summary: The two times Holland saw the beginning of a reign.





	call me anything but what i am

It was almost noon, and Gorst had been eating pastries for breakfast. Had been, because currently, he was slumped forward over the table, Vortalis’ sword through his back and an expression of stupid, perpetual surprise on his face.

_How arrogant_ , Holland thought. The man had ascended to the throne by killing the one before him, who had killed the one before him… and on and on. He should have known death would come like this someday.

Gorst’s crown had fallen off with the attack and laid in a pool of spilled apple juice. Vortalis picked it up and spun it around his finger idly. He tilted the chair back, wood scraping over stone, until the old king’s body slumped to the floor.

Holland stared down at the lifeless, open eyes. Someday, Vortalis would die like that. The idea clung like a burr, painful and stuck fast. Yes, Holland had sworn to protect him, and as an _A_ _ntari_ he stood a fighting chance. But this hall had seen ninety two kings in a hundred years, and it suddenly felt naïve to pretend this would go any differently. The hall was silent save for a gentle, steady drip, the blood Holland had drawn for the battle falling from between his fingers and mingling with the spreading stain across Gorst’s robes. It seemed poetic somehow, but Holland would be damned if he could figure out what any of it meant.

Behind him, Vortalis made a questioning hum, and Holland turned around to an outstretched hand offering the rest of a half-eaten pastry. Holland shook his head. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had food that good, but his head was pounding with the effort of using his magic, and all he wanted to do was sleep.

Vortalis bent down to run the pastry through Gorst’s blood, tracing a circle around the blade breaking through the front of his chest.

“That’s disgusting,” Holland commented.

“It’s tradition,” Vortalis responded. He took another bite, blood and jam making a mess as he chewed.

“That makes it worse.”

Vortalis swallowed and shot Holland a pointed look. “Withhold your judgement. You’ll never know what it’s like to need power you don’t have.” He slid Gorst’s discarded crown over his head.

Holland considered the reflection they cast in the slick marble floor. Their faces were blurred, but Holland’s onyx eye and the crown’s violent spikes were still visible. They looked like stock characters, people more fitted for legends than real life. Silence settled in the hall like snowfall. After the chaos of the battle, the thrill that came with pushing his magic to the limit, Holland felt unmoored. He watched his breath plume in the cold air.

“What now?” he asked after a pause, and Vortalis grinned.

“Now,” he said, eyes blazing, “we address the people.”

Holland would have preferred to lie down for a very long time, but Vortalis was already turning to walk out of the dining hall, and Holland jogged to catch up.

“We?”

“I,” Vortalis amended. “You can just stand there and let them all see I have an _Antari_.”

Holland felt a surge of instinctual anger at Vortalis’ wording, but he said nothing and followed his new king down the corridor.

Holland could sense magic, but in White London he mostly sensed the desire for it. It ate away at him, like water gently destroying the banks of its river. The runes people etched into their skin seemed to be designed to siphon power from the nearest available source, which more often than not was Holland himself. As Vortalis and Holland walked down the sparse hallway, Holland felt a sinkhole opening in his chest, thousands of runes clawing at him from the inside out. A crowd had gathered.

The pair rounded a corner and then Holland could hear the people as well, voices mixing together into a general cacophony. Vortalis straighted beside him. He wasn’t a good man, no one truly was, but he would be a good king, and that was what mattered. Holland touched the handle of his knife, as if to make sure it was still there, and pulled his coat tighter around him.

Vortalis pushed open the doors to the balcony with a flourish. An uneasy hush fell over the crowd as Vortalis stepped into their line of sight, and Holland thought of that day in the woods, the day they’d first met. There had been a fire in Vortalis’ eyes, a rare enough sight that Holland had been immediately drawn towards the man, as if he could siphon some of Vortalis’ energy for himself. Vortalis had tried to have Holland killed, but standing there between the dying trees, the past had seemed as inconsequential as the leaves crushed under Holland’s feet. He hadn’t known how much he needed something, some _one_ to believe in until Vortalis held out a hand and Holland took it with no hesitation.

Mounted on the balcony was a bell, its surface rusty and sinister from years in the dreary Maktahn air. Traditionally, it was rung by new leaders to mark the first moment of their reign. Vortalis held up a hand triumphantly and wrung the tension out of the air, letting the moment balance, unfinished, before he pulled the cord. A crow startled from its perch on a palace window and took flight as the chime rang out over the crowd. Vortalis swept his arms out, encompassing the people below and the city beyond.

“Today marks a new beginning, a new dawn. I, Ros Vortalis, claim the throne of Makt by bloodright…”

Holland had heard him practice his speech enough that it had started to seem prophetic, long before their victory was actually assured. He let the words wash over him and watched the bird disappear until it was nothing but a black dot against the splashboard sky.

“Gorst allowed his position to soften and corrupt him. I swear on my life I will not follow his example. I will be fair and just, but in return, I expect a level of loyalty…”

Holland lowered his mismatched gaze to the crowd and wondered who among the faces below would be the first to try to kill Vortalis. He touched his arm, where dried blood still clung to his skin.

Let them try.

 

The first time Holland had heard Vortalis’ speech, he had laughed. It was late, and they had been holed up in a nearly empty pub, passing the time with cheap drink and delusions of grandeur. The words were meant to be screamed, flung out at a crowd, but even when Vortalis dumped them between the stains on the bar’s countertop, Holland had had to remind himself that they hadn’t already won. 

“Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself?” Holland had asked after he’d recovered from the fantasy brought on by Vortalis’ words. Vortalis had grinned and offered one of his typical non-answers: “If I don’t get ahead of myself, how can I hope to get ahead of anyone else?”

Holland had snorted once and gone back to the watery beer left in his cup.

But as the weeks went on, he had come to understand. Holland had the tales of the someday king, and Vortalis had his speech. They were both only words, but sometimes, that had to be enough.

 

It started to rain as Vortalis hurled the last lines of the speech into the crowd—fat, punishing drops that landed like blows.  

“The era of multiple rulers in a single year has come to a close! I have won the throne, and with the power of an _Antari_ behind me, I dare anyone to try to take it!”

Holland tensed to keep from shivering as water soaked through his coat to his skin. After a line like that, he couldn’t afford to show weakness. No applause came after Vortalis fell silent. Behind the pattering of raindrops, there was only an thick, uneasy silence.

Then—

“ _Pfas su pelöskat seka ulst kajmadost?_ ” A jeer from the crowd, slangy and rough. _Why do you allow yourself to be this man’s bitch?_

Laughs followed. Holland forced his fingers to relax, one by one. It made sense that some would question why he would not want to rule. Best to just let the jab slide. In fact, this was an opportunity to show that their reign would be better than the last, more lenient—

“Why don’t you just kill him? You know he couldn’t stop you!”

When Holland glanced over, unsure, Vortalis’ eyes had gone almost as dark as his crown.

“Holland,” Vortalis called, in a voice clearly meant for the whole crowd. “Come here.”

Holland faltered for just a second at the dangerous look on Vortalis’ face, and then he went.

“Some of you,” Vortalis continued. “Apparently question the loyalty of my _Antari_. Perhaps you think that this is a place where you can drive a wedge, and weaken my rule from the inside.”

Holland shifted awkwardly from foot to foot.

“That will be impossible.”

He drew a knife out of his coat, and Holland realized with a sinking feeling that it was the same hollow, ink filled blade he used to carve runes into his own skin.

Vortalis walked closer to Holland, like a predator hunting its prey, and tilted his chin up. Holland trembled with a sensation that was mostly but not entirely fear as Vortalis traced his fingers along the pale column of his neck.

First Alox and then Talya, the people Holland had been supposed to be able to trust the most, had betrayed him. After the second time, he’d told himself that he’d become jaded and cynical, that he would live expecting nothing but pain so at least it wouldn’t come salted with disappointment. But still, some part of Holland refused to believe Vortalis would hurt him, refused right up until the knife first broke skin. Holland breathed through his mouth and held still, watching the crowd watching him.

This hadn’t been part of the plan.

Blood trickled down Holland’s neck and disappeared under his collar. It was hard to tell the shape of the mark through the dull pain that spread with every cut, but Holland could use context clues to fill in the rest. Vortalis was carving a binding rune.

White hot hatred lanced through Holland at the realization. Vortalis had told him they’d always be equals—he’d promised—

Vortalis pulled away, smiling gently. How could he smile like that after what he’d done?

“His will is my own,” Vortalis shouted. He shoved Holland roughly to his knees. “Now, if you still aren’t convinced I don’t intend to die any time soon, allow me to demonstrate the strength of Antari magic!”

Vortalis pointed at the statue in the center of the courtyard.

“Destroy it.”

Holland clenched his jaw. “Yes, my king.” The words tasted bitter on his tongue.

“And give them a show,” Vortalis said, low enough that the crowd below heard nothing.

Holland rose wordlessly and walked back into the palace, where a flight of rough-hewn stairs connected the second floor with the courtyard doors. He took each step deliberately, dread building with every foot lower he descended, until he felt like he might drown in it. There was nothing here to distract him from the immensity of what Vortalis had done.

 

He felt both suffocated and relieved when he stepped back outside. The crowd seemed much more intimidating now that he was at eye level with them, though nobody made any trouble. They shifted back to let him pass, hunger and disgust clear on their faces even through curtains of rain.

Holland approached the statue, his boots splashing through the puddles that had already accumulated on the uneven ground. People shivered and drew their thin coats tighter, but no one left. It was as if they were glued to where they stood, unable to move until they saw the statue crumble at their feet. Holland placed a hand on the slick stone. He’d never understood why rulers bothered with the material when they wouldn’t live long enough for clay to erode, but either way it was a tradition in Makt for the new king to have a statue built of himself in the courtyard, and tear down the one from his predecessor. Of course, most had to use rope and a few strong servants. All an _Antari_ needed to do was bleed.

“This is the last piece of the man you once called king,” Vortalis shouted from the balcony. His words competed with a distant roll of thunder.

Holland unsheathed and raised his blade, waving it about theatrically for the benefit of thousands of eyes. Anger coursed through him, more than an emotion—it seemed to boil over into the past and future like a pot that had been left for too long, until it seeped into all his memories and he couldn’t imagine a future where he was not achingly furious. At the world that had converged to this point, at Vortalis, and himself for trusting again, and at the fickle magic that had given Holland his power and had spared nothing for the pale, gaunt faces staring back at him through the rain. His eyes darted upwards, where Vortalis waited, a dark silhouette against the dirty bathwater sky. Holland slashed the knife across his forearm.

Blood welled to the surface only to be rinsed away by the rain, enough for the spell but not _enough_. Vortalis’ voice echoed through his head.

_Give them a show._

Holland could feel his pulse in the throbbing of the pain. He gritted his teeth and brought the knife to himself again, pushing deeper, carving until blood came faster than the rainwater. Power surged to the surface with the blood, and for a second Holland thought of what _else_ he could do with it, how easy it would be to follow the advice of the crowd and turn on the man who had placed all his trust in the unwavering loyalty of an _Antari_.

His vision blacked around the edges, lost in the fantasy, and then Holland remembered that he _couldn’t_. The choice was no longer his, which only made him want it more desperately. He pressed his hand to the surface of the statue and dragged his head up into his best approximation of a cock-sure tilt, even as his knees felt like they might give out and pitch him into the mud.

“ _As Staro_ _!_ ” Holland screamed. Vortalis had a voice for crowds, for grand declarations that landed like fishing hooks, sinking into flesh and drawing people in. Next to that, Holland sounded awkward, pitiful even. Considering the situation, it was insane to be concerned about something so trivial, but Holland still cringed as cracks raced across the surface of the statue. The pieces hung suspended for a moment before gravity won out and it all came tumbling down.

Vortalis hadn’t prepared something to say here. Holland supposed he had planned for the audience to chant something, or at least cheer. They stood stoically, and for a moment time seemed to freeze. Then one man close to the pile of fresh rocks spat at his feet. “Pig,” he muttered. That seemed to be everyone’s cue, and people began shuffling away, show over.

Holland returned to the balcony, fury and hopelessness treating his mind like a battleground. Vortalis was _grinning_ when he turned around, and Holland shook like a plucked string. His fists were tight at his sides.

“How could you?”

Shock crossed Vortalis’ face for just a moment, before he let out a sharp, hysterical laugh that seemed to drill on Holland’s bones.

“Close your eyes.”

Holland clenched his jaw and kept them definitely open. He held Vortalis’ gaze for a moment, hoping he’d discover some new _Antari_ spell that made fire shoot from his eyes, before he realized what it meant that he hadn’t yet blinked. He was still free.

“I drew it wrong,” Vortalis said, stepping forward to take Holland’s uninjured hand. “There’s one line at the bottom that doesn’t connect right. But no one should be able to tell the difference, not unless they’ve seriously studied runes, and I’ll tell you, from the number of symbols I see people wearing that are drawn completely _backwards_ , I don’t think we’ll have a problem with that—”

All the hatred in Holland was yanked so suddenly out from under him that he felt in danger of losing his footing. He laughed once, incredulously, and then he couldn’t stop. Vortalis could only watch him completely lose it for a second before joining in, until the new king of Makt and his _Antari_ sat gasping against the palace wall, giggling like schoolchildren.

Holland swallowed, took in a breath, and wiped the tears that had sprung to his eyes.

“But it really felt like I had no choice—”

“That’s because you didn’t, not really,” Vortalis said. He took off the crown and flipped it over and over in his hands. “But not because of me. You understood the necessity of playing your part in front of the crowd.”

He paused. “Holland, you didn’t truly think I would do that to you, did you?”

Holland thought of Alox and Talya and didn’t respond, and that was answer enough.

 

Night fell, as everything does eventually. In the darkness, the room Holland had picked felt too large, and he consoled himself by reciting the names of kings whose rule hadn’t seen even a full day: twenty-four people Vortalis had already outlasted. Above the bed, a canopy swished gently. It reminded Holland of a shroud.

Footsteps echoed down the hall. Everything echoed here: every mistake repeating itself ad infinitum, until no one knew when the sound had started or when it would stop.

A sliver of light widened in the inky blackness as the door opened and Vortalis stepped inside. The lantern he held cast his face in shadow, deepening the circles under his eyes. “I can’t sleep,” he admitted, and Holland’s hands curled into fists.

“Owning my magic wasn’t enough for you? You want me to be your bedfellow too?” He asked coldly. The searing anger and then numb relief he’d felt earlier in the day had fermented into one, comprehensible emotion: bitterness.

“I don’t—” Vortalis’ mouth fell open, stupid and useless, and Holland felt almost bad. Then he thought of his knees on the hard concrete and snarled.

“No, of course not.” An almost wistful look crossed Vortalis’ face. “You know today was only an act.”

Vortalis looked somehow younger without his crown, and Holland felt his anger slipping hopelessly between his fingers, no matter how hard he tried to cling to it.

“We both have our parts to play, Holland.”

“You take off the crown and you’re just yourself,” Holland said. “I could gorge my eye out and still have to be _Antari_. You can’t say we both have to play a part when _mine never stops._ ”

“And mine does?” Vortalis asked. Holland felt the mattress dent as he sat down on the foot of the bed.

“There’s going to be multiple people trying to kill me at all times now. I don’t think they’ll spare me just because I took off my crown for a moment.”

Holland scoffed. “People trying to kill you. I wonder what that’s like.”

Holland and Vortalis never talked about the past. It wasn’t something they’d consciously decided, but after the day in the woods, neither had seen fit to mention the dozens of assassination attempts that had come before the idea of an alliance. They had both feverishly thrown themselves into plotting regicide, and their conversations stayed in the comfortable realm of guard shifts and floorplans and possibly changing the national anthem. Holland hadn’t even realized the undiscussed topic until the words were already spoken. He breathed shallowly, as if silence now could make up for what he’d just said, could suck the words back in like a vacuum.

“I’m sorry,” Vortalis said finally. “I didn’t mean it—like that.”

Holland opened his mouth to say something—still deciding between “it’s okay” and “I hate you”—but Vortalis rushed on, tripping over the words as he forced them out.

“If it helps, I could give you a title. Something official, so you’d have something to take off and cast aside too. I know you’ll always be _Antari_ , but what if I called you…”

Holland almost laughed at the utter uselessness of the idea, but somehow, the part of him that was willing to play along got to his mouth first.

“Your knight,” Holland offered, and the word tasted new on his lips.

Vortalis smiled, flickery in the lantern light. “Perfect.”

Nothing was ever perfect in Makt. Nothing even came close. And yet, when Vortalis said it, Holland could almost believe it was true. He raised a hand to his neck, where he could feel the cuts scabbing over, an imperfect symbol marking the only loyalty Holland had ever known. He exhaled the rest of his anger with a sigh.

When he felt Vortalis stretch out along the foot of the bed, Holland made no move to stop him, just closed his eyes and let sleep drag him under.

* * *

Astrid’s fingers traced over the rune on Holland’s neck.

“What a fool the old king was,” she muttered, half to herself. “You wouldn’t have been bound very strongly when it was drawn like this, no?”

Holland couldn’t stop shaking. Every minor moment made his chains clink together, an almost gentle sound, like windchimes. Behind Astrid, Holland could catch a glimpse of Vortalis, sprawled out across the floor with a slash across his neck and glassy, open eyes. _He was right_ , Holland thought suddenly. He hadn’t been wearing his crown, and that hadn't meant anything at all. “It wasn’t like that,” Holland ground out.

Astrid simply laughed and brought a blade to his chest, carefully popping the buttons of his shirt one by one.

“Don’t worry. I’ll do a better job than he did.”

The tip of the knife broke skin, and Holland screamed.

* * *

The wind was cold and biting as the three stood on the balcony, facing the new crowd. Holland wondered at how he’d ever mistaken Vortalis’ mark for a real binding rune when this was far, far worse.

“Ring the bell,” Athos commanded. Holland pulled the cord, and it rang and rang and rang.

**Author's Note:**

> This was going to be a more shippy thing for Valentine's Day, but I'm just too emo when it comes to my boy Holland and also about a month and a half too late. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed anyway :'D


End file.
